"I don't understand," Kesley said.
"Paint, sing, write? Light-sculpture? Architecture? Come on," she said impatiently.
"I see. No, I'm not an artist. I'm ... just here visiting. Looking for someone."
"That's nice. Who?"
"A poet. Daveen the Singer, they call him. Is he here?"
The girl frowned. "Daveen? I recall the name—but I don't think he's living here now. You'll have to ask Colin about that. He remembers everything."
"Where can I find this Colin," Kesley asked.
"Over there." She pointed to the group surrounding the nude girl. "The old lecher's busy sketching Marla. He doesn't know any more about sketching than I do, but he loves to look at a pretty body. He's the bald one, right down in front. You'd better not bother him now."
"I'll wait," Kesley said. He could hold his own among assassins, but he could see that he was going to be sadly out of his depth here in the Colony.